


Overture

by cutesudon



Series: Political AU [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (they deserve their own tag), Interviews, Newspaper Articles, Other, POV Victor Nikiforov, Political AU, President Nikiforov, Presidential Inauguration Ceremony, Suits, Worldbuilding, alcohol consumption, alternative universe, fancy dinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 09:50:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12033408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cutesudon/pseuds/cutesudon
Summary: 1.	the first part of an event; the beginning of something; an introductory performance, action, or event preceding and preparing for the principal or a more important matter.The job of his dreams, a supportive family and a lovely dog – Victor Nikiforov had all these things, and yet his life still felt incomplete.





	Overture

**Author's Note:**

> Finally... We head into the Political AU!! From now on the updates are going to be in chronological order, and once we get to the part where [Raison d'Être](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11535771) fits I'll let you know!
> 
> This is the most introductory thing I've ever written and so I've struggled to find the right tone for it. I'm having a lot of fun doing all the research for this AU <3 
> 
> Big Thanks Time™:  
> to [ditto](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nakanowardcat/pseuds/nakanowardcat), [joey ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HQ_Wingster/profile) and [yukiyuna](http://yukiyuna.tumblr.com) for beta-reading so many versions of... this.  
> to [am](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wingchestr) for helping me out with the article and interview,  
> and to everyone who recommended/commented Raison d'Être! Your support is greatly appreciated! <3
> 
> (I'm publishing this before I head on a trip so occasional typos/mistakes might be there. But you know me... I'll most likely rewrite this monster at some point.)

_The Examiner News_

Politics

**Nikiforov Wins Election as Russian President**

by Yulia P.| March 20

 

MOSCOW - The candidate from the independent party, Victor Nikiforov, won the Russian presidency last Sunday in a landslide victory, defeating the opposing party candidate with over sixty percent of votes, on a platform fighting for middle-class interests and young voters.

With the Kremlin towers gleaming majestically behind him, Nikiforov strode onto a stage Sunday night to declare his victory, delivering a powerful speech about union and change.

“The path before us is long and challenging, but it fills me with pride to say that we have never had so much hope in our future before,” Nikiforov said to his audience, gathered attentively at the Kremlin Square. “Together, and only so, we will achieve our goals. Together, we can work hard and create the future we want.”

Victor Nikiforov will come into office after a campaign in which he laid out a number of clear promises: to improve infrastructure and living standards, to combat corruption and to expand health care. To achieve those goals, he’ll need to gather political support for the programs he proposes, suggesting that he might invite political rivals into his government.

 

**Remarkable charisma**

Known for his stellar rhetoric and debating skills, Victor Alexeyevich Nikiforov, 30, former minister of Labor and Social Security, captivated the public after his polemic declaration at the State Duma, in which he called attention to the extravagant spendings of members of the government.

In a move that caused political turmoil, Nikiforov revealed receipts from the Parliament’s budget that demonstrated both the extent and the impact of their extravaganza. In response to this news, the suddenly assertive citizenry rattled the Kremlin, corroborating Nikiforov’s statement and demanding the government to answer to those charges.

This unsettled a lot of politicians, but consequentially the presidents of the Federal Assembly agreed to start an anti-corruption investigation scheme that led to the arrest of four politicians, as well as pressing charges on another sixty-five members of the government over the inadequate spending of public money.

The growing middle class was intrigued as they found out about Nikiforov’s stance against this perceived government wastage. The number of young people registering to vote underwent a significant rise.

“These elections are different from all the others. You can see that people are taking it more seriously,” said Alexandra P., a 32-year-old elementary school teacher.

“I voted for Nikiforov because I wanted to give him a chance,” said Vladimir S., a 21-year-old journalism student. “He’s proven he can do anything, and I believe that he will.”

It is true that Victor Nikiforov’s message seems to resonate particularly strong with the young. His policy is a nationwide growth in the economy while addressing many of the thorny difficulties that have plagued Russia since the fall of the Soviet Union, in particular corruption in politics, the vertical power and the predominance of oligarchs in specific branches of the economy.

Thanks to his skill and charisma, Nikiforov appears to always manage to have things go his way. Following the scandal at the State Duma with his unprecedented victory at the polls, Nikiforov appears to be the man of the hour, orchestrating the Russian government to operate in the way he desires, while managing to have an impressively positive response from the public to both his domestic and international policies.

 

**What the world expects**

The West openly supports Nikiforov’s rise to power in the hope that he will pursue a more Western style of democracy, bringing Russia closer to Europe and America, and furthermore keeping ultranationalist candidates out of power.

One of his main goals is to bring young Russians back to Russia. During the past decade, the number of young, middle-class Russians who have moved to European capitals such as Berlin, Paris and London, has increased to over 60%. There are many different reasons behind this exodus: uncertainty about the country’s future, economic instability, as well as the general political climate that has left the country subject to near-authoritarian governments in recent history. To counter this, Nikiforov plans to invest more in the building and maintaining of international relations with other countries, seeking to “make Russia a more reliable, more peaceful ally”.

For many, this election’s result marks an exciting change in the course of Russia’s leadership. While doubts remain over his experience and how far Nikiforov will be able to achieve his goals, the eyes of the world are certainly turned towards a changing Kremlin.

“I voted to reelect the former president because I prefer to have someone with more experience in charge,” Anton V., a 45-year-old businessman, declared as the result was announced. “But I hope he will do a good job. Russia is in his hands now.”

 

**More headlines in World News…**

 

* * *

 

Victor had worked  _hard_ on it. And anyone who knew Victor, they knew he was in it to win. He was a man who lived for his work; everything he set his mind to do had his full attention and dedication: every project, every debate, every plan. He never hesitated to take on a challenge he considered worthy of pursuing; facing every obstacle that came with it with such determination that many around him thought he might be insane.

So it didn’t come exactly as a surprise for his colleagues when he announced he was going to run for president. And the debates were to die for. Nikiforov had always been known for his stellar rhetoric and easy wit – his personal trademark against other disputing candidates. That added to his charismatic personality and the appealing proposals that spoke to the younger masses were enough to spread his name throughout the country with ease.

Those had been rough times on Victor – leaving him barely any time for himself, but it’d all been worth it in the end. It gave his life a purpose, making him feel useful as he involved himself with something arduous that he loved so dearly – the chaos anyone involved in politics was thrown into. The never-ending paperwork, the unavoidable stress, and the typical conflict resulted that from taking action in long term, meaningful projects... It was all so important to him that Victor felt almost  _hollow_  if he didn’t have something to do for his work, so his logical solution for this was to keep improving on what he loved to do.

And it all paid off once the election results came in, followed by the relief of such a great achievement and the satisfaction in knowing he would have so much more to do in the future. His victory had been surreal – an absolute majority in the first round – yet naturally expected of someone who had received so many acknowledgments for his efforts.

Many had argued that being young would weigh against him in his campaign – the uncertainty that accompanied his seemingly short experience in the political field when compared to the other candidates. And it had turned out to be exactly what people needed – a young and passionate candidate, with the willpower and energy to work hard on his principles and make them come true; someone who understood the essential changes that the country required and who was talented enough to speak his mind and bring himself to the position of such high power.

And it  _was_  an incredible feat for someone as young as him to get to where he was, having built his career so efficiently that at the age of thirty he was about to become the youngest president in Russian history. People all around the world wouldn’t stop talking about him, both praising his clear effort and questioning his aptitude for the job. Victor had a lot on his plate and was determined to get it done as best as he could even if that meant living exclusively to his work. It wouldn’t change much, he pondered. He already gave his all to work, and there wasn’t anything substantially important he’d have to give up on in the name of running his country. Most importantly, he was doing what he loved the most. The dream of delivering nothing but excellence at the end of his tenure was not a far-fetched plan for him.

So the morning of the 7th of May was when he had the first taste of how it all was going to be or, at least, the pomp and circumstance that surrounded the presidential figure in events such as the inauguration ceremony. Naturally, Victor had watched the broadcast once or twice, so he knew exactly what to expect – that, and he’d been guided through the steps more times than he cared to count by the team responsible for the ceremony’s execution. Except that didn’t stop him from having had little to no sleep on the previous night, tossing on the bed unable to think of anything that wasn’t the change his life was about to go through.

Thankfully, the team did an excellent work at getting Victor to look radiant and well rested, dressed to the nines in an elegant navy suit and purple tie. Their purpose was to take care of everything so Victor didn’t have to worry about minor details, giving him all the assistance he could possibly need before boarding the presidential ride and departing to the Kremlin for the ceremony. So that left him with nothing to deal with but that familiar anticipation that followed these important occasions, and he seemed to be doing a poor job of controlling it as the make-up artist kept making comments on his long sighs.

It was a pleasant spring morning with clear skies and mild temperature that made Moscow’s architecture and colors stand out beautifully; it couldn’t be more suitable for the broadcast on the TV, he heard someone mention. As they were doing the last touches on his makeup, checking on his suit for what felt like the hundredth time, making sure Victor looked nothing but impeccable and prince-like, they were informed that the ceremony had just started.

A wave of anticipation hit him, running down his chest like a drop of cold water. There was nothing else to be done except wait for the signal for him to leave to the ceremony, so Victor sat on the fancy couch looking at the people rustling around and sending updates to the Kremlin team.

“Drink up,” a woman said, plucking him out of his thoughts. In her hand, a glass of iced water filled to the brim looked like the best suggestion he’d heard all day so far.

He hadn’t realized how dry his throat was as he held the cold glass in his hand, wetting his lips as his hair stylist fought a stubborn strand with ungodly amounts of hairspray. He took a confident sip and noticed there was something odd.

“Did you put vodka in this?” Victor asked as he felt the familiar aftertaste in his mouth. It was light, barely noticeable, but definitely there. The woman took a moment to reply, hearing some instructions in her receiver and nodding to no one in particular.

“Just a shot,” she explained, waving a hand dismissively at his incredulous expression. “You need to relax and that should do it. Now finish your drink and prepare to board the car, you’re leaving in ten.”

Victor did not argue, drinking the whole glass and feeling undeniably more at ease as he prepared to head to the ceremony, going through the last retouches before going downstairs to take the car. With his anticipation out of the way, it was all on his hands to charm the audience, smiling pleasantly at the cameras that followed his every step as the focus of the ceremony turned to him.

It was undeniably exciting, if a little embarrassing as he became progressively aware that now all eyes in Russia were on him when he received the instructions to proceed to the ceremony place, every camera now trained on him. He wasn’t at all unfamiliar with getting attention and being under the spotlight before – but this felt  _different_ , a solemn air of importance surrounding him _._  Instead of allowing those worrying thoughts to take over, Victor took it as an opportunity to enjoy the quiet endorsement that followed with each camera pointed at him, the validation of all of his efforts to get where he was now, making way with his procession to the Grand Kremlin Palace to be declared President.

He found that first step to be quite easy to follow through. Save for the couple of cameras that were shooting from different angles and the fact that Victor felt compelled to smile as a knee-jerk reaction to them, there was nothing out of the ordinary with it. It was methodical, simple to follow, and there weren’t people looking at him expectantly or cheering to make him feel uncomfortable. It was just the shooting team, the chauffeur, him, and no one else.

What got him nervous was all the pageantry and extravaganza that was waiting for him at the Grand Kremlin Palace, not-so-subtle reminders of the importance of his achievement, though in the interior of that car it was almost possible to ignore what was happening. That was the price that came with being president – and he’d wanted this, chosen to follow that path.

Victor busied himself by watching the view around him, brushing those thoughts away with the casual distraction. He’d had little sleep the night before, Victor reasoned to himself, it was only natural he felt burned-out and moody having been up since the early hours. Letting those kinds of thoughts get to him would only bring him down, and he knew better than allow himself to fall into that mindset before an important event such as this.

He could hear the distant, droning sound of helicopters that followed the presidential escort, some recording, some watching over his car going through the streets evacuated of traffic. The city was in a silence so deafening that made everything feel dreamlike – and in some ways, it was – as if at any moment Victor would wake up back in his room in St. Petersburg, at age seventeen in his childhood bedroom. To add to that illusion, the procession riding by his car in perfect synchrony made it seem like they needn’t worry about moving – the world would do it for them, bowing down to the soon-to-be most powerful man in the nation. Victor paid it no mind; the mechanical buzz of the car’s engines was a low, soothing sound that helped him keep his anticipation under control, and he busied himself watching the view of the city vaguely.

He tried to not give much thought to it, but it was hard not to. It was exciting as it was terrifying that each passing moment confirmed what was happening, the culminations of his efforts in the past years, the hard work executed by his team. He didn’t, in any way, doubt his potential, but it was unnerving to think of the implications that this power carried.

The sight of Saint Basil’s Cathedral in all its famous colors and shapes was a familiar, almost relaxing sight as they entered the Red Square, standing out beautifully in contrast to that azure sky. They drove into the Kremlin through the Spassky Gate, the pointers on the clock so impossibly close to midday it made him wonder if they could make it in time.

All worries fled his mind as they drove by gorgeous gardens, all sorts of flowers neatly arranged in lovely patterns grounding him in the moment, emanating sweet spring scents that promised Victor everything would be alright. He smoothed his hand down his chest, the tie’s silky sensation feeling comforting against his skin, watching the sun-bathed gardens pass by him.

He fumbled in his pocket in search of his speech’s bullet points list and skimmed his eyes through them one last time, trying to ignore the sudden adrenaline rush that washed over his body. He wanted to laugh himself silly, run a marathon around the Red Square and scream his lungs out, but that feeling died out as the chauffeur pulled the car to a stop.

It was impossible to miss where he was expected to enter – mounted guards stood in line in their ceremonial uniforms, unblinking, serious and sharp on their mounts as his car approached with a low rumble. The front door opened almost as soon as the car stopped by the Palace’s doors, and Victor would have opened his own door if the guard wasn’t so fast, forcing him to fit immediately into his role as he headed inside.

Men stood guard left and right in the long corridor that led to the red-carpeted stairs bearing muskets and swords, saluting him with solemn seriousness. As if instinctively flipping a switch, he fully committed to his presidential role, doing as he’d been meticulously instructed to, flashing a handsome smile at the cameras as he made way to the stairs. He was Victor Nikiforov the President of the Russian Federation, and he showed it in his confident stride. He was flawless, charming, brilliant and secure, stunning everyone who he passed by flaunting the purest, effortless elegance with every step.

The military band started playing as Victor set foot into the palace, beelining down the corridor and up the stairs with sure, graceful steps to the sound of a pompous march. Cameras were pointed at him from every direction, the soft shutter of them registering the moment to eternity, barely noticeable sounds as he made his way up the stairs with a courteous smile that perhaps looked a bit stiff from his tension, though otherwise very credible. Any spectators would think he was used to all that grandeur and formality, as if this position fit him perfectly, completely unknowing of how awkward it felt at a first moment for him.

With precision, the march ended as he reached the last step, and as if on queue the Kremlin Clock chimed its famous tune, announcing noon and the official start of the ceremony. Golden doors were opened for the arrival of the soon-to-be president, following the red carpet him to walk through the Georgievsky Hall filled with unknown faces at first that smiled back at him, applauding as he followed his way to the main room where the ceremony was held.

The interiors of the Grand Kremlin Palace were something otherworldly; gilded details everywhere the eyes could see, with impossibly intricate patterns one could lose themselves in for days, statues and paintings that demanded appreciation for long minutes and enraptured whoever took some time to gaze upon them. He’d seen pictures of it before, and Victor decided the cameras failed to make justice to it as he strode down the red carpet, trying to fight back the amazement that insisted on surfacing on his face.

The first hall he was remarkably stunning – white, gold and yellow, undeniably lavish, rich in details that Victor lacked knowledge of words in every language he spoke to even begin to explain its exquisite appearance, admirable if not a bit bewildering. The famous golden chandeliers adorned vaulted ceilings with a myriad of diamonds, sparkling beauty that almost felt like too much to bear.

It required quite an effort to not stare at it in awe, and yet with all that beauty people only had eyes for him. Victor was sure he was blushing at all that, feeling immensely pleased and a bit embarrassed by all the flattery.

He had a long path to follow to the platform where he’d take his oath, walking down the long halls surrounded by cameras and people who’d traveled long distances to be there on that day and yet feeling isolated from them all. Victor wanted to enjoy every second of it as he knew it was important, though he knew it would all end too soon, and his memories would be blurry before it did. The ceremony was meant to last less than an hour, of which Victor was sure he’d remember less than five minutes.

Not in one moment Victor faltered in his grace, elegant to the last strand of his hair, smiling graciously at each person looking at him in silent appreciation for their presence despite the chills that ran through his body when he thought of what was happening. He  _wanted_  this, he wanted to please and bring pride and joy to everyone who’d trusted him with this power, promising himself he’d not fail them. Each step Victor took seemed to do a good job in helping him relax, even if he followed the red carpet in a haze; only slightly aware that his cheeks were starting to hurt from the smiles, the pompous music, and his own body that seemed to move for him when his mind had seemingly ceased to function beyond following the simple instructions of looking charming and following the red carpet.

It happened too fast. Before he even acknowledged how far he’d walked and how close he found himself to the stage, Victor heard a voice announce his full name, followed by the grandiose notes of Tchaikovsky’s Festival Coronation March, exuding importance and cheerfulness in every note. More applause ensued as the golden doors to the Alexandr Hall were opened for him, revealing the stage at the end of the hall as well as some of the familiar and famous faces he expected to see there.

The Alexandr Hall, where the ceremony took place, was ostentatiously rich, extravagant in every detail that spoke of a glorious, luxurious past that was not to be forgotten just like the rest of the Grand Kremlin Palace. It was one of the most famous rooms, and it was easy to understand why – bathed in gold from ceiling to floor, with pink marble glittering with gold in the walls and intricate patterns in each column; the room was  _lavish_.

And it was where all the important people were, privileged to witness the ceremony as close as possible. Previous leaders of state, politicians, diplomats… But also important people who meant the world to him, friends and family smiling proudly back at him, and for the first time on the day Victor found himself smiling in earnest. They all applauded him warmly as he mounted the last few steps up the platform and shook hands with the president, awaiting the start of the ceremony.

The voice on the speakers called the president to step forward, taking place at the rostrum to give his last speech, addressing the years he’d been in power and concluding how it had been for him. Victor barely heard a word of it as he stood, feeling as if his brain was floating above his body, his mind aware of what was going on but having a hard time to process everything. He felt like a child, excited to be doing something important despite feeling awkward, with a silly smile on his face as the president spoke and he barely registered anything he said.

“… I wish him success in his office and in his work for our country and people,” the president concluded, his speech short and precise, returning to stand next to Victor with a calm expression.

Victor knew that the ceremony was supposed to be fast, the ceremonial part lasting less than an hour from start to finish, but it still felt like it was speeding past. His heart raced as the president of the Constitutional Court stood close to the microphone to address the public, waiting for the applause to cease to give the ceremony continuity by reciting the Constitution as tradition demanded.

“Victor Alexeyevich, I ask you to swear the oath.”

Immediately, Victor felt the weight of all those eyes on him even before he took the first step to stand by the rostrum, the expectation feeling almost like some physical weight on his shoulders now.

And in contrast to what he’d gone through before, now it was one of those moments where everything was overwhelming, senses sharper and attention was so scattered that it made seconds feel like an eternity. Victor was all too aware of his heartbeat, the intense light directed at him and the warmth of the spotlights on his skin, his tongue too heavy to fit comfortably in his mouth. What ground him in the moment was the smooth leather-clad Constitution under his right hand, cold and soothing, and all the years of refining his public speaking skills to thank as he began declaiming the presidential oath with a firm, clear voice that didn’t seem to be coming from him.

“I vow, as I fulfill the duties of President of the Russian Federation, to respect and safeguard the rights and freedoms of our citizens, to observe and defend the Constitution of the Russian Federation, to protect the sovereignty and independence, security and integrity of the State, to faithfully serve the people.”

His voice did not quiver – it was firm, clear and calm, and Victor felt surprisingly serene once it was done, his legs trembling under his weight as he stepped back from the microphone. It was so easy that for a moment Victor almost doubted he had said those rehearsed words aloud, glancing at the president for some response, earning a curt nod as his reply. A sense of accomplishment washed over him, making a smile flourish on his face unconsciously.

“Victor Alexeyevich Nikiforov, by the power invested in me by the Constitutional Court I declare you President of the Russian Federation.”

He barely registered it when the national anthem started playing, the choir’s vibrant, flawless voices sounding distant as Victor’s mind whirled around the last declaration as if he couldn’t quite believe it. Painless and quick, he had been declared president.

His eyes surveyed the hall in search of his family, and Victor found himself smiling fondly at the sight of his father wiping tears away with the back of his hand, trying to keep it together though his emotions clearly had the upper hand on that matter. His mother, on the other hand, beamed in excitement, looking so proud she could burst with a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Yuri was trying his  _best_  to look uninterested as he held Victor’s gaze, but his eyes couldn’t lie as he looked around the lavish room in poorly-veiled amazement. Their presences were an indescribable comforting sight that helped him take a deep breath.

But Victor felt dizzy, legs trembling like a newborn calf’s, undeniably blissful but also petrified as he realized his speech was happening next, making it impossible to savor the small break between oath and speech. Logically, he knew the chances of committing a serious mistake were small – he was used to addressing to the public, being under spotlights and in front of so many cameras – but he couldn’t help worrying about that knot in his throat provided by the natural anxiety caused by the circumstances. It was a matter of practice to master the art of talking to an audience with ease, desensitizing oneself to the expectant eyes that were trained on him in the crowd.

_President of the Russian Federation Victor Alexeyevich Nikiforov._

_Fuck_ , Victor thought,  _that’s me_. It was the cue for his speech, and on the spur of the moment, Victor was clueless as to how he’d brought himself up to the rostrum again despite his body feeling like jelly. Automatically, he fished the folded piece of paper in his suit’s inner pocket, smoothing the paper in front of him and skimming his eyes over the bullet points like he usually did.

His heart was beating fast, anticipation racing through his veins. He could do this. Victor drew in a deep breath, focusing on the feeling of the air filling his lungs, emptying his mind of any possible distractions as he released his breath. He could do this. His eyes focused on some lost point in the crowd, looking at it without really seeing it.

“Dear citizens of Russia, friends. As I take the office of President of the Russian Federation, I realize the full extent of my responsibility before our homeland. I consider that the help and backing of the citizens of Russia are the primary and most important support for the President. The President’s obligations to look after the state and faithfully serve the people are sacred to me now and forever.”

Victor dared peek around and survey the reactions. He had everyone’s attention, eyes trained on him with soft smiles and attentive expressions. Having a good start was crucial and even though these speeches were always boring, now that he’d gone through his introduction Victor felt much more at ease. It was always like that with him, the initial uneasiness that was quick to fall into confidence and boldness in his speeches. The screens showed a real-time transmission of his speech, and while that was awfully distracting it also served him as a subtle reminder that he was  _doing it_.

“I stand here today grateful, humbled by all those who placed such great trust by electing me to the office of head of the Russian state. I will do my best to justify the trust of millions of our citizens; it is my office to serve our country and our people, whose support encourages and inspires me to face the most difficult tasks.

“We have a lot of progress to do, as we are now entering a new stage in our history, and we need to address topics that have been neglected for far too long. Economic stability and a steady foundation are necessary conditions that will not suffice alone to guarantee our people the quality of life they deserve, if we don’t make the effort to distribute profits fairly.” Victor paused, eyes quickly surveying the room and offering a short pause to allow his words to take effect. “We need to think of the future we want for Russia. The challenges we will face are many, real and serious, and while it might take a long span of time to meet them, they will be met. Only free people in a free country can be genuinely successful. This is the foundation for both economic and social growth and political stability in Russia.

“The future of our nation and the goals we want to achieve as a collective depends on us. Starting today we must begin our work to make the changes Russia needs so the generations to come can have a better future, and for that our actions must be bold and swift. We shall emphasize the meaning of democracy and what it represents, involving all our people more actively in the political agenda.”

Those points had been the main focus his whole campaign, and at the mention of it, he could see from the corner of his eye a few heads nodding in agreement. Other than his voice and the soft sound of shutters casually flashing, the hall was silent, all those present focused on his words.

He was close to the end. It brought him relief to think his speech was flowing naturally, words coming to mind in an organized stream of thoughts that connected the bullet points on his paper perfectly. He’d never enjoyed memorizing speeches to declaim them to the public because it always felt like an awful lot of effort, though for this occasion he had considered it, and he could only be grateful that things were turning out so well.

It was funny to acknowledge that he almost wanted his speech to go on for longer now, not wanting to step down from the rostrum but just keep going, keep talking about what he loved to do, almost willing to hold a press conference right then and there as he started feeling more comfortable under the spotlight. Controlling himself, he took a deep breath, preparing to wrap up his speech.

“Together, we shall all work to make our country prosper, and we will be successful as long as we rely on our resolve to create a better future for ourselves and the generations to come. I believe our common values and determination to transform our country are the foundation for a successful future to be built by all of us.”

As he nodded in a guise of thanking for the audience’s attention, Victor’s address was received with a new wave of applause as he stepped down the rostrum to yet another pompous tune. The representatives greeted him on stage, all wishing to shake hands and congratulate him on taking the office, and Victor was impressed at how much more at ease he felt.

With a wave relief washing over him, Victor allowed himself to relax a little as he shook hands with the former president while they smiled at the cameras. That was the single, most crucial moment of the whole ceremony, and it had been executed with ease, so he followed through the remaining formalities with an empty mind, just barely aware of what was expected of him. Something about greeting the Presidential Regiment, he recalled, following the same way back, revisiting the smiling faces that now cheered more enthusiastically. His smile felt more natural now, if a little forced when he reached halfway and he found himself repeating  _thank you_ over and over as he crossed the halls back to the exit.

Long before Victor had been elected president, several journalists had given him the title of “most charismatic candidate”. Some would justify and say that he was charming, blessed with a calming composure that lulled people to feel at ease. Others simply declared that his striking charisma was thanks to his good looks and dashing smiles, which made him impossible to forget.

Personally, it didn’t matter to Victor, but he believed it to be true once he spotted hands peeking out from the audience, offering to shake his when he crossed the first hall he’d been through. At first, Victor barely noticed those patient gestures amidst a sea of waving and clapping ones; however, it was impossible to ignore them once he spotted one within reaching distance, stretched on the corridor right in front of him. Without a second thought, Victor reached for the hand with a firm grip and a bounce in his shake, soon dropping the hand before turning to follow his way.

It was a thoughtless reaction, an impulse. What he’d forgotten was that every action  _had_  a reaction and that rule followed suit, especially  _now_ that he was president. Where there was once one hand, four others emerged. A simple realization dawned on Victor when he saw another hand reach out for him, too close to ignore. Before he could even think about his reaction he found himself shaking another hand, murmuring  _thank you_  and proceeding to shake another one.

He couldn’t stop.

And fair enough, it was his choice to commit to it and shake the hands in front of him. It was his choice,  _his duty,_  to commit to the patient hands in front of him. To blatantly ignore would be a blasphemy on his own words as president, and Victor was going to leave as a twisted knot of cords if he just turned and left dozens of patient hands hanging.

He realized all too well the mistake he’d made as he shook,  _perhaps_ , the tenth hand without making his move across the checkerboard. He’d lost count at this point, beginning to panic at the situation he found himself.

It was hell, and hell was being trapped in a makeshift meet-and-greet with Mr. President,  _where his credibility was on the line._  A familiar voice reigned in the back of Victor’s mind, and it nostalgically reminded him of all the lectures Yakov used to hurl into his left ear for being careless.

Maybe it wasn’t that bad, he recognized as he noticed the smiles on people’s faces as he shook their hands, but it was certainly inconvenient to the team planning the ceremony.

Just as Victor began wondering what would happen if he took too long to get to the Cathedral Square, he spotted photographers registering this awkward moment to History. The flashes accentuating the strain across Victor’s lips when he reeled back a smile, cheeks blushing at the embarrassing situation. He tossed his bangs to the side with a quick flick of his head, loose strands bouncing over his forehead and hiding the panic behind his left eye. Twenty seconds passed before Victor was allowed to move.

At least the headlines would amuse him during afternoon tea, he thought.

But for the sake of getting things done, Victor casually disentangled himself from this awkward situation, waving at the crowd with an apologetic smile and stepping away from it before his security team had to intervene. Back on his track, limiting to simply nod and smile as he was doing before as he surged forward and reached for the front door. An entire minute felt like  _hours,_ but Victor managed to escape without major issues.

Once he was able to breathe, cheeks burning with the slow realization of how cringe-worthy it all must have looked _,_  Victor laughed. It was a simple, informal politeness that didn’t do any harm. In a worst-case scenario, he’d just become a meme on the internet. The guards watching him on his way to the square gave away no reaction on what they thought about it, and Victor found some comfort in their stoic support.

And so he followed with his schedule, hurrying his pace just a bit to make up for the time lost. He met the former president at the door, waiting for him to greet the soldiers and officers down the square with a wary smile. He didn’t ask any questions, but something told Victor he  _knew_.

They descended the stairs of the Grand Kremlin Palace and stood at the additional tribune where he was expected to review the parade – as he’d imagined, Victor felt much more comfortable in the open air, even if he was standing in front of one of Russia’s most powerful regiments as they openly displayed their power.

The former president looked calm, almost bored even, following the formalities without thinking twice about what he was doing. Victor could only hope to achieve that level of composure one day, and the placid smile the former president offered him quietly assured him that he would.

Reviewing the parade was the part of the ceremony Victor was least excited about. The excitement of having delivered a good speech had worn off with the awkward shaking-hands moments from before, and he found himself wishing to get this over with. Despite it being a nice day – pleasant, with a few clouds forming in the skies now – he wanted to go home. He missed Makkachin. His feet hurt from standing and his cheeks were sore from smiling at the cameras at this point, his smile not looking as sincere now. Only now he understood why previous presidents always looked so serious in formal occasions like this.

The sight of the Commander of the Presidential Regiment marching down the square to meet him brought Victor back to reality, reminding him of what he was expected to do. And just like before, he heard Yakov’s voice in his mind, this time not yelling this time but reminding him the importance of a good recovery after a slight faux pas.

He immediately ignored the soreness on his feet in favor to stand straight, nodding sharply at the Commander and easing himself back.

“Comrade President of the Russian Federation,” the man greeted, stern and clear, squinting his eyes at Victor. “The ranks are assembled in honor of the President’s inauguration. I’m the Commander of the Presidential Regiment, Colonel Petrov.”

To be speaking so clearly this far and without a microphone, the man had an impressive voice. Victor stepped forward, leaning a bit to speak on the microphone.

“Greetings, comrades.”

The servicemen roared a greeting back, and Victor would be lying if he didn’t admit it was a bit intimidating to hear it. He was never fond of military displays of any sort, funnily enough, and in less than 48 hours he’d be participating in yet another ceremony that involved a bunch of guns, tanks and patriotism, enough pageantry to last for a year. That was probably the most interaction with the military he’d ever had in his entire life.

Oh, well.

He took a deep breath and repeated the customary greeting.

“I congratulate you on the occasion of the anniversary of the regiment’s founding.”

The servicemen cheered again, and Victor was thankful to step back from the rostrum while the Commander barked orders for the ceremonial march. His duties for the ceremony were over now, making it was easy to relax and let his thoughts wander as he watched the parade.

It was just like watching the Victory Day march, except, the uniforms were fancier and they counted on a better choice of colors. They marched with beautiful precision, shoulder to shoulder and turning their heads to look at the president as they passed by the indicative flags. The little voice in the back of his head noted that Yuri would point that as the highlight of his whole ceremony.

And he had to admit, to his surprise, that maybe this was the most interesting part of the whole ceremony, even though the former president didn’t seem impressed at all. Victor watched the servicemen marching in amazement, tapping his foot to the sound of the catchy tune.

“Did you know…” The former president murmured, tilting his head slightly so Victor could hear him better as the cavalry passed in front of them. “You can mount on one of those if you want,” he nodded at the horses discreetly, a self-satisfied smile playing on his lips as he resumed his original position.

Victor’s eyes followed the former president’s gaze with curiosity, slightly knitting his eyebrows together as he tried to decide whether he was telling the truth or not.

“You mean ride a  _horse_? Around the Kremlin?”

The man nodded with a sneer, making a visible effort not to laugh.

“Have you done it?” Victor couldn’t resist asking.

“Sadly, no,” he confessed. “But I’d love to see a president actually do it.”

Victor bit back a smile, nodding at the officers politely.

“Well. Maybe you will,” he replied with a teeny smirk he couldn’t hold back.

 

* * *

 

It had been an eventful, exhausting day, but the best official appointment was saved for last. After going through his busy first day, Victor found himself at one of the most renowned restaurants in Russia, enjoying the privileged view the glorious glass dome offered to that side of the city. The restaurant had been reserved for him and his guests especially, for the objective of enjoying the night in the presence of his dear ones.

This was an extravagant place, granted – nothing less to be expected of one of the gastronomic attractions of the Russian capital. Each of the restaurant's rooms was decorated with a mood in mind – the top floor, where Victor had escaped to, was for contemplation of the city’s formidable view, the large and empty seats positioned in parallels for conversations and stargazing. The rooms on the lower floor, where his guests were having appetizers and champagne, were much cozier, with round tables and tall, comfortable suede chairs, colorful and modern in stark contrast to the darker, moodier ambiance around the bar.

That wasn’t exactly the type of place Victor would normally go for a celebration, but he’d been told countless times that he should allow himself to enjoy the occasion. It wasn’t a  _normal_  day – it was a once in a lifetime occasion, and Lilia was not one to negotiate in such matters, and Victor knew best not to argue with her.  

Personally, he’d much rather be at home, wearing his fleecy robe, having a homemade  _befstroganov_  followed by a glass of white wine and some lackluster documentary on the TV with Makkachin by his side. Boring. Comfortable. But it wasn’t so bad as the champagne they served was delicious, he was surrounded by people whose presences he enjoyed, and everyone seemed happy to be there, which was inarguably the best result he could have expected – not to mention that managing to fit about forty people into his apartment was an impossible, if not illegal mission.

There, on the top floor, Moscow scintillated at his feet; the impressive, modern shapes and colors of the International Business Center ahead of him were hypnotic, posing tall and splendid, standing out from the other buildings. Victor let his eyes nonchalantly study the well-known skyline, letting his thoughts wander aimlessly for the first time that day. His guests wouldn’t mind his absence for a couple of minutes, he knew, and he needed that moment for himself.

As he gazed at some lost point in the city, watching the chaotic flux of cars coming and going from different directions, Victor finally found the opportunity to appreciate how immensely grateful he was for the turn of events in his life. He had achieved his dream, the future held its doors open for him to do what he loved to do the most, and he had a wonderful group of people on his side to make those dreams happen.

And yet something annoyed him, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. The feeling of accomplishment after surviving his first day as President was unquestionable, though there was a tiredness that ached deep in his bones, combined to a sense of guilt because he felt he wasn’t as excited as he should be _._ His most ambitious dream had just come true; he’d left victorious with an amazing result from the polls and the entire world seemed to be excited for him and what it meant for everyone but he couldn’t  _feel_  it.

He’d had a taste of what his routine was going to be from now on – formal lunch with the former president after the ceremony, press conference shortly after, the tiresome scheduling of interviews that extended all the way to October – and while it was overwhelming at times it was the life he’d chosen for himself, the reality he’d worked hard for. Victor understood how  _draining_ it was even before he decided to run for president, but he didn’t quite expect feeling  _lost_  of all things now that he’d gotten where he wanted to be.

He couldn’t figure out why, and he felt a worry nagging at the corners of his mind. Victor caught a glimpse of his frowning image on the window in front of him, forcing him to step back where the lights from the streets wouldn’t get on his face.

Perhaps it was because this was his first day, he reasoned. It was confusing – so many opportunities of where he could get started, so many things to do – and it would be natural to worry that he might have taken a bigger bite than he should.

But that was nonsense. If anything, a busy agenda was a good thing. It meant working hard, keeping his thoughts focused on something positive that would benefit everyone, leaving no room to think of his personal shortcomings. Confusion was just a natural response to lack of things to do, and inertia led to worrying about futile things instead of being useful. Or so he tried to convince himself.

It was expected of his position to be constantly prince-like, cheerful and courteous. And despite it being strenuous, Victor had to admit he enjoyed it, having fun with playing the role of legendary archetypal. Even in hindsight, everything seemed effortless, like he’d been born to do just that, and there was no one else in the whole country who could possibly do it better than him.

The sound of a shutter coming from behind him plucked Victor from his whirlwind of thoughts, bringing him forcefully back to reality. Puzzled as to who it could be, he turned to look over his shoulder with a curious look.

“Wow, beautiful,” he heard the red haired woman mutter, her smile audible from behind the camera, adjusting the lenses and snapping another picture. “So lost in thought with his glass of champagne, eyes lost in the horizon. ‘Everything the sun touches is our kingdom’,” she quoted, making Victor laugh. “Come on, big boy, strike a pose!”

He obliged by offering a smoldering smirk, running his fingers through his silver hair with effortless seduction infused in the gesture. Mila perked up, humming in approval to his pose, flashing the camera a couple of times and making sounds of approval at each new photograph.

“These are good. Too good. Too sensual, Victor,” Mila mimicked his pose with exaggerated gestures and a pout on her lips. “You’re president now, not a model. We need one for your public account, you know. Safe for work? So please, can you try to not eye-fuck the camera in this one?”

He couldn’t help but laugh at her words, taking a sip of his champagne as he stepped closer. “I can. But I need to know what I should  _not_  do, and you got me curious with that talk. Can I see—?”

Mila gasped while he was mid-sentence, the look in her eyes wordlessly begging Victor not to move as she took a step back holding a hand out for him in the universal sign for  _stop_  to stress her urgency. Raising the camera like she’d just spotted a rare bird in the wilderness, she took an experimental shot.

“OK. This is good. Don’t move,” she said, squatting to get a better angle. “Just smile. Think about democracy or something. Oh, sweet, sweet democracy.”

Mila kept guiding him through poses for her pictures, pointing at places for him to look at, then asking him to freeze while she zooming in carefully and tested different positions with the camera.

“Why was I not invited to the photoshoot?”

Victor needn’t look to know who that voice belonged to, a more sincere smile blooming in his lips as he heard that soft-spoken English coming from the stairs. As soon as he caught the movement of Mila lowering the camera he spotted Chris dual-wielding flutes of champagne, with a familiar-looking paper bag hooked on his forearm.

“Vitya, this is betrayal,” Chris gasped in mock-offense, sauntering across the room.

“Sorry, _chouchou_ , it was impromptu,” Victor explained with an affected pout. “Will you forgive us?”

Chris did that thing where he studied Victor with heavy-lidded eyes, tilting his chin up just a bit, and the outcome was either a reading or some explicitly sexual joke. This time, Chris just clicked his tongue and took a sip of one of the flutes, and Victor took his deliberate silence was probably for Mila’s sake.

“You know I can’t be mad at you, muffin, so you have my forgiveness,” he decided, playful, tilting his head and offering a humorous wink. He then offered his spare flute at Victor. “If you think the man of the hour would escape to brood unnoticed you are dead wrong. Drink up.”

Chris’s offer was received with initial reluctance, a light frown from Victor’s part as he studied the flute of champagne, then his friend’s expression. “I’m not  _brooding_. Just came here to admire the view.”

It was a barefaced lie, but Mila didn’t need to know that. Chris, on the other hand, had been friends with Victor long enough to catch him red-handed on his white lies, and the look Chris shot him was enough for Victor to hear the familiar dismissive  _ça va_  in his mind. He always seemed to pick up on seemingly unimportant details that were completely oblivious to Victor himself and hand him some truths when he least expected it, giving him a wake-up wall when Victor least expected it.

Chris limited himself to motioning at the flute with a raised eyebrow.

“In that case, I say you can never have too much champagne,” he argued with a cheeky smile.

It wasn’t his argument as much as it was the familiar look in Chris’s eyes that made Victor accept the offer to his friend’s contempt, taking a moment to drain his flute first with a quick sip while Mila chanted  _chug chug chug_ under her breath, making Chris snort. Satisfied, Chris turned to look at the view, blowing a low whistle as he appreciated it.

“It’s indeed gorgeous here,” he agreed, turning to look at them. “But you know what’s even more gorgeous?”

“Oh, Chris!” Victor crooned, waving a hand in mock-embarrassment at his friend who stared at him from the corner of his eyes like he'd been expecting that reaction. 

“Bitch, I wasn’t talking about you,” Chris laughed, pushing Victor playfully. “Though you’re looking pretty sharp in this suit. I meant what I have here, in this bag.”

Victor’s eyes were alight with the suggestion, sparkling with curiosity as his friend set the paper bag on one of the tables and gently pulled a black, matte cardboard box with  _Giacometti_  engraved in silver letters on the lid, elegant and minimalistic. Mila hummed in approval, pointing the camera at it as Victor let out a delighted gasp.

“My suit?!”

Chris did the old, telltale hand on his hip move that was always followed by a sassy remark that Victor knew since college, bracing himself with a fearless snicker as his friend blinked his eyes long and slow before looking at him.

“No,  _mon cher_ , it’s a pink convertible car,” Chris clicked his tongue, playfully hooking a finger under Victor’s chin to get a better view of his rolling eyes, pushing the box across the table in his direction. “Of course it is, silly. Have a look.”

With care, Victor opened up the box, unfolding the white parchment paper on top to work through the layers separating all pieces of his suit under Mila’s attentive lenses. There were four pieces and Victor didn’t know where to start, undoing the parchment paper’s neat arrangement to reveal jacket first, pushing the air out of Victor’s lungs as he let out a delighted gasp, followed by an excited squeal from Mila that brought a satisfied smirk to Chris’s lips.

“Chris! This is divine!” He lilted, excited to reveal more of the suit and undoing the other arrangements to gaze at his friend’s full work.

Once all pieces were out of their delicate wrappings, Victor gazed at his new suit with the enthusiasm fit for a child on Christmas’ morning, unsure as to where to place it to have a full look. Chris did the honors, piecing the bespoke suit together and laying it on the empty table, smoothening the invisible wrinkles with a gentle hand.

“Remember when you said ‘orange suit and black waistcoat’?” Chris asked, resting a hand on his hip, and all too suddenly Victor was looking at the Design Student Chris from years ago. “It was a  _bold_  idea, and you know me, I  _love_  a challenge – but to be frank, this is the first time I think something might be a tad  _too much_ for the occasion. Not that you couldn’t pull that off, of course, we both know you can, Vitya, you’re fashionable without trying. However, I think sticking to the classic black suit fits best since it’s your first Victory Day Parade.”

Victor nodded, grateful that Chris knew what he was doing better than anyone in the world, eyes blown wide by the beauty and detail in the suit laid in front of him.

“As you can see,” his friend continued, bending over the table to point at the waistcoat and tie, “I committed to the original idea, but saving this nice shade of orange for the details more subtle to the eye… You know, it’s not  _out there_  like you wanted, but it’ll definitely show up on the pictures. It’s a… Festive, modern classic suit.”

Chris’s clothing designs were a work of fine art – flawless, from start to finish, made of the best materials available, daring yet classic design, custom-made with expertise so unquestionable Victor didn’t even worry about second-fitting them. Just like the suit he’d worn for the inauguration ceremony, this one had been a product of many video calls between the two, where Victor explained the occasion to a sketching Chris in the middle of a long, sleepless night, exchanging impressions until they were both satisfied with a basis for Chris to work on. Chris never failed to give him his best, always providing Victor with a delightful twist to their original accord, which ended up somehow being always better than their final sketch.

This time it was no different; he was delivered a product completely different from their plans – and Victor lacked words to describe how immeasurably thankful he was, for it looked even better than he’d imagined.  A modern-looking suit – black, two buttons jacket in English cut (Chris’s favorite design to suit Victor’s shape) and silk peak lapels and simple, black fitted trousers. The beauty lied in the details – the tie, apparently black, reflected a slightly orange undertone, matching the waistcoat’s delicate black and orange pattern, so subtle and natural that made everything look perfect when pieced together, and it was maddening how it seemed that the restaurant’s lighting did it no justice to show how striking the pieces were. Victor couldn’t have conceived it any better, and Chris seemed proud of his work as Mila gawped at it with a hung jaw.

“Chris, I’m…” Victor trailed off, unable to tear his eyes away from his friend’s work, gazing at it like the suit was his firstborn child. Chris seemed equally delighted as he looked at Victor, then at a staring Mila who didn’t even bother taking pictures anymore, too enthralled by details.

“Should go without saying, but I got you matching shoes, though I’m afraid I forgot them at the hotel,” Chris sighed, picking up the pieces carefully put on display on the table to analyze their details with critical eyes, scrutinizing for any flaws. “The shirt too, but that one I left it on purpose because I was worried about it wrinkling. It’s a simple white, semi-spread collar and the cuffs – you know, with the buttons and…” he grumbled, gesturing vaguely as he clearly held back from blabbering about the details of his work. “I wanted to make sure everything looked perfect in the final product, with all the pieces together, so I didn’t want to risk telling you to get one that wouldn’t match. I’ll ask to deliver them first thing tomorrow morning.”

Victor was  _delighted_ , beaming excitedly as Chris tried his best to look humble while inarguably proud of his work, pleased with the reactions he’d gotten from his little crowd and probably excited to know how the world would react to it in two days. With a soft chuckle, Victor pulled him in for a tight hug.

“You’re amazing!” Victor laughed, squeezing Chris in his arms. “You put so much effort and passion into everything you do, Chris. It’s gorgeous,” the praise tinted Chris’s cheeks pink, Victor noticed as he pulled back from their hug. “What can I say? ‘Thank you’ is just not enough. Keep up the good work and I might as well give you full creative liberty on my suits, I’ll just wear them and be your brand-face forever.”

“Oh, my,” Chris groaned, overcome by surprise, gazing at him with heavy-lidded eyes as he grabbed Victor by his wrists. “Are you serious? Am I dreaming? Say it again, Vitya, please!”

And Victor wouldn’t be himself if he wasn’t a tease, taking the opportunity to toy with his friend just a bit. Leaning in, he took the time to play with Chris’s mind with those words, barely suppressing a giggle as he watched his friend staring at him expectantly as he wrapped his arm around Chris’s shoulder and made him look at the view in front of them. Chris was holding his breath, following along Victor’s play hesitantly, unsure of what to expect but still curious to know how serious Victor was talking, glancing over his shoulder and gasping in silence at Mila.

“No,  _mon cher_ , I’m not kidding. You know very well I don’t play around with those things. I’ll give you…” Victor paused in suspense, suppressing a laugh that insisted on surfacing as he looked at his friend’s expectant face. “I’ll give you my full permission to design my suits however you like. I trust your taste, Chris. And you have my measurements, just think of it,” Victor caressed each word in his whisper. “At every important, international occasion I’ll be wearing your brand. How does that sound?”

Victor knew it was a bold proposition, but the way Chris was looking at him with his lips parted and eyes blown wide, satisfaction written all over his face, told him he might in satisfaction told him he might as well have made one of Chris’s dreams come true.

“If you say that one more time I’ll bust a nut in my pants,” Chris said, biting back as smile. Victor was unfazed by these sorts of comments through the long years of their friendship, though he always played along.

“I’m serious,” he said with a humored wink. “You always do a great job, Chris. There’s no reason for me not want to wear your works. But please, before anything happens, there is a bathroom that way,” he pointed, watching Chris fan himself like a Victorian lady who’d been wooed incessantly as he let go, while Mila stared with wide eyes, unsure if she should laugh or be concerned. She continued taking pictures and seeming to be having a lot of fun with them nevertheless.

“Well, just one more thing before I take my leave, then,” Chris cleared his throat, returning to fumble the paper bag in search of something. He retrieved a smaller, fancier looking box from within – and this one was golden, of a sturdier material, definitely looking more like a gift box than the previous one. At the sight of it, Victor crooned, clasping a hand to his chest as his friend snickered. “Come on, Vitya, you know the suit is not a gift. You understand I needed to get you something else.”

“Chris, you didn’t have to—“

Waving his finger at Victor, Chris winked. “Exactly. I know I didn’t  _have_  to. I  _wanted_  to, because you’re my best friend and you deserve it,” he purred, giving Mila a quick peek of his gift. She gasped, delighted, pulling her camera up to capture the moment as Chris offered him the gift.

Within the box, laying on a black silk crib, was set a delicate white-gold watch carved with intricate patterns that were thin enough to just be hinted at a first glance; a dark blue background to the light-golden numbers that looked like pale snowflakes opposed to the night sky, pointers narrow and delicate silently ticking the seconds away. Victor shook his head, immensely flattered and incredulous at his friend’s deliberate pampering, a smile so earnest blossoming on his lips that made his cheeks hurt.

“I think he likes it,” he heard Mila chirp, followed by the shutter snap.

“I don’t want to hear that it’s too much,” Chris warned, words silky and soft, leaning on his shoulder as if he already expected Victor to complain about the gift being too over-the-top. “It’s a proper gift for this occasion,” Chris caressed those words deliberately, tapping his shoulder lightly as he winked. “You deserve to treat yourself a little.”

“I love it,” Victor admitted, taking the watch in his hands to have a better look at it, and the camera shutter clicked again.

Even though he felt a bit embarrassed from receiving such an expensive gift, he was amazed by Chris’s impressive design and hard work on the piece, and he could admit he was more than a little excited to wear it. Victor wasn’t used to wearing watches on a regular basis, but it only made sense to start wearing them now – or at least this one Chris had gifted him.

“Well, now that I’ve introduced you two I’m afraid I’m going to take my leave and call Hans,” Chris said, waving at the other end of the room. “Daddy gets grumpy if we don’t wish each other sweet dreams.”

Mila crooned, clutching at her heart and smiling affectionately at Chris, who waved his hand at her with mock embarrassment. Victor watched the scene with a slight tinge of bitterness he couldn’t quite place but did his best to conceal it.

“Tell him I said hello!” Victor said in return, and Chris winked at him then turned around, moving to a quieter place.

“What kind of goals, honestly,” Mila commented as he left, offering Victor a sympathetic smile.

“They are a lovely couple,” he agreed, despising that bitterness that wouldn’t go away. “Even after years of marriage, they’re still so in love it feels like we’re all watching some rom-com.”

Mila said something that Victor didn’t quite catch under the jazzy music that started playing, something definitely corny that he didn’t mind not hearing at that particular moment where he was trying to find something else to think about. The music and the sudden laughter bursting from the lower floor, where his guests were, were a welcome cacophony to distract him from the fact that his phone remained silent in his pocket, and it would remain like that all night.

“Anyway, pampered boy,” Mila said, pointing the camera at him with renewed enthusiasm. “Put your watch on so we can take some pictures.”

Victor chuckled, placing his flute of champagne at a safe distance from his suit. “Haven’t we taken enough pictures already? Are you sure you still have storage in your camera?”

“Now, listen,” Mila laughed, pointing at him with fire in her eyes. “Your friend gave you a gift that costs like… my  _yearly_  wage, or more. If you’re not taking an editorial-level photoshoot with me right now I’m going to get Lilia and that’s the end of your Introvert Zone.”

“Alright, fine! No need to threaten me...” Victor chuckled, picking his watch carefully and slipping it onto his wrist.

The watch’s cold, heavy feeling on his skin was yet another fresh novelty in his routine he’d need to get used to. Posing strategically, Mila snapped a couple of pictures of his new gift, leaving the choice of which one would make it to his Instagram for later. Chris was still on his phone, murmuring sweet words in French that Victor purposely ignored, focusing on folding his suit neatly back into the box when a voice made him turn back.

“There you are,” a stern voice called from the stairs, followed by the sharp noises of high heels on wood, which could only belong to Lilia Baranovskaya. “Your guests are waiting, dinner is about to be served. You shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

Lilia’s voice was casual – stern  _was_  casual for Lilia – but even when she spoke casually, she always managed to get Victor a little antsy. Naturally, Victor knew she didn’t mean to sound so serious, but he couldn’t help feeling guilty as he knew he’d been absent from his party for longer than it was acceptable.

Her steps were sure and graceful, her posture the very definition of efficiency as she made a beeline to the black matte box Victor had in front of him with a glimpse of curiosity in her eyes.

“That would be my fault, Lilia,” Mila said, her tone apologetic. “I… snatched Victor from the party. I’m sorry.”

The woman waved her hand dismissively, focused on the tailored suit Victor smoothed with gentle hands with a gentle curve on her lips. “There’s a whole party going on downstairs, Mila. You should be taking pictures of the guests as well,” Lilia said, helping him fold the suit back into the box. “But I’d like you to stay for a minute. I want to have a quick word with you,” she continued, glancing at Victor with a raised brow.

“Well, then. Meet you downstairs,” Mila said excusing herself, smoothing her dress and picking up her bag. Lilia said nothing, barely acknowledging her as she left while folding the parchment paper to protect Victor’s tailored suit before closing the lid.

As they finished packing his suit back Lilia paused, studying Victor with as if she was pondering on the right words to bestow forbidden wisdom upon him, or maybe give him a sermon for ignoring his guests and brooding upstairs. Instead, she smiled, but it was a kind of smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, that hid something Victor couldn’t figure out.

“You’ll get used to it, eventually,” she said, nonchalant, closing the box’s lid and crossing her arms across her chest.

By  _it,_ she meant the presidential routine, the lack of privacy for a moment alone with his thoughts. Or so he supposed. Lilia talked from experience, and her support was a comforting thing to have on his side. She’d seen many kinds of people come and go in the political scenery, having quite a few stories to share and pieces of advice to give.

And although he appreciated the feeling deeply, the last thing Victor wanted was coddling. He offered a warm smile that secretly wished her worries away, nodding in appreciation for those words and feeling some sense of guilt creep upon him.

“Thank you, Lilia,” he drawled, smiling softly.

Lilia just nodded, green eyes scrutinizing Victor’s soul like she could unveil every secret thought he’d had, seeing right through him and saying nothing.

“I have a good feeling about you,” she commented, stunning Victor with a rare smile. “So does everyone else. I have yet to see a mother so proud of her son like yours is.”

“Ah. You’ve met my family, then?”

“It was a pleasure talking to them. It has been a long time since I last saw your father,” she said, nodding at the stairs with a raised eyebrow and good-humored smile. “Your brother is a bit of a tit, though. I had seen him dance before and thought he must be an angel, but I wasn’t expecting him to be so edgy in person.”

Victor suppressed his laughter, shaking his head at the all too familiar description. “You must have noticed where I’ve inherited my stubbornness from, then.”

“Runs in the blood. It’s remarkable,” Lilia nodded, offering Victor the most playful smile he’d ever seen. “Now go. Don’t keep your guests waiting.”

With a polite nod, Victor excused himself to return to the party downstairs with the paper bag hooked on his forearm, cheeks lightly flushed by his prolonged absence. It was possible to hear the buzz of voices chatting excitedly as he neared the stairs, loud enough to muffle the jazzy music that had been playing in the background. His guests were sprawled all over the room, some sitting and relaxing on the large velvet seats, others standing in circles, chatting over glasses of champagne and appetizers.

Victor didn’t see who did it, but someone whistled at the sight of him coming downstairs with Lilia on his heels, causing excited cheers and applauses erupting sparsely in the room. In complete contrast to the ceremony earlier that day, each and every face Victor looked at there was directly tied to emotions and memories, making him feel much more at ease and making the smile blossoming on his lips undeniably more sincere. He shook his head, flattered by the playful cheering and waving his hands dismissively at the small, intimate crowd.

“Vitya!”

That thunderous voice was unmistakable, cheerful and excited like Victor hadn’t heard it in a while, making him turn around in surprise. Yakov caught up with him, a warm hearted smile all over his face as he approached with his father, Alexey, right behind him, pulling for one of those handshakes that turned into a hug, roaring compliments on his performance. Victor earned a couple of pats on his shoulder from both of them as they shared a brief, friendly conversation where Yakov commented on some curious episodes on Victor’s path to presidency to his father and sharing a good laugh over some of them. It didn’t take long before a small circle formed around the three with some guests flocking in to hear the stories Yakov shared, each episode followed by Alexey’s laughter that drew attention from everyone.

Glancing over his shoulder, Victor caught sight of Chris and Mila on a seemingly more interesting conversation with his Prime Minister, exchanging impressions about cheesy romances novels and the latest movies they’d watched, but he couldn’t just excuse himself from his circle now that his dad was highlighting his accomplishments starting from age six. Eventually, his mind trailed off, limiting to a nonchalant, repetitive nodding motion as he looked at people without really seeing them, clueless as what they were talking about.

He was almost grateful when Georgi brought one of the restaurant employees up to him, giving him the perfect excuse to leave and announce that dinner would be served shortly. His guests stirred with interest, looking for their designed seats while trying to get some of his attention at all costs. Sitting at a filled table even with people who were all close to him was a bit overwhelming, but Victor managed to power through it without major issues.

Dinner went smoothly, the occasional requests for a speech getting progressively louder as more drinks were brought to the table, new bottles of champagne being popped open as time went by. It was blissfully ordinary, loud, fun and relaxing like only a night out with friends could be, and Victor was quick to forget about his exhaustion for the rest of the night. Every now and again someone would raise their voices to sing praises on Victor’s accomplishments, only to make him blush a little and dismiss them by proposing a toast. Other than that, it was pretty easy to forget what a life-changing day that had been.

Eventually some of his guests – namely Chris, Mila and Georgi, a dangerous combination that everyone should watch out for – invited him to indulge in some party-esque leisure for the rest of the night. They were planning on going to a famous club in the bohemian neighborhood and were desperately trying to come up with excuses for disguises so Victor could join them, drunkenly discussing what would be the best way to sneak him – and possibly his secret service, Georgi argued – into a party without raising any suspicions.

For a moment, Victor earnestly considered joining them, nurturing the crazy idea of sneaking into a party and having fun with his friends like he hadn’t done in a long time, except more prudent thoughts got the best of him – and possibly Lilia’s watchful side-eye that let the message across pretty clearly. Excusing himself for the night, Victor headed home as the last of his guests bid him goodbye from his dinner party.

And all of his fatigue came crashing down on him once he got on his ride back home, sore shoulders from holding up tension all day almost making it impossible to take a deep breath and relax. The suit he was wearing was one of his favorites, a most comfortable one, and even so, it felt like it was clinging to his body in wrong ways like it wasn’t his. His face itched under the light makeup, ears ringing from the loud voices and eyes feeling tired with sleep. He couldn’t wait to have some time for himself.

His apartment was in darkness, only dimly lit by the soft ambient lighting coming from his kitchen and the lights from the streets that shone through the large windows, the realization of it only hitting Victor as he heard Makkachin trotting up to him as he heard the telltale sound of his keys on the door.

“Hey, buddy. Sorry, I abandoned you today,” Victor apologized, getting on his knees to receive the greetings of his friend who wagged his tail excitedly, earning a few eager licks from his dog. “Was the dog-sitting lady nice to you? I hope she was.”

Makkachin replied with a soft whine, complaining as Victor interrupted the petting session to kick his shoes off and turn on a soft ambient light so the living room wasn’t in complete darkness. The room seemed slightly more habitable, and it was easier to discern the elegant furniture in the impeccably tidy room. Makkachin appreciated the change as he strutted around the living room in search of a toy, wasting no time to invite Victor to play.

Makkachin brought Victor a soft purple ball and dropped it at his feet, inviting him to kick it down the corridor to play chase. Understanding the message, Victor did some tricks with it – kicking it from one side to the other until Makkachin whined impatiently – giggling as he watched Makkachin’s fluffy ears perk up with attention whenever he did something different with his toy.

Victor kicked it down the corridor and Makkachin chased after, scratching his nails on the floor as he darted off, giving Victor some time to undo the knot on his tie and shed his jacket haphazardly as he headed to the kitchen to grab a drink. Makkachin barked at the ball a couple of times before pitter-patting his way back into the kitchen, dropping his drooled toy at his feet.

He played a little more with Makkachin, feeling bad for abandoning him for the entire day with some stranger, until the poodle gave himself satisfied by lolling his tongue out and laying in the middle of the corridor like he owned the place, and Victor had to tread carefully as to not to wake Makkachin up while heading to his bedroom.

Showering sounded like the best idea he’d had all day. A moment to wash away the exhaustion off his body, put on some comfortable clothes and relax on his couch like he’d been dreaming all afternoon. He turned the TV on and tuned to some random documentary channel to offer some soft background noise and hopped into the shower, letting the water run down his body, hoping that it would ease his tension as a makeshift massage. It didn’t work, though it certainly helped him relax to the point of sleepiness.

Victor put on some old sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt from the time when he was a student in Paris, feeling the most comfortable he’d ever felt the whole day. He’d plopped onto the sofa lazily with Makkachin nesting next to him as the poodle realized it was time for cuddling, earning a gentle scratch behind his ears as a reward. It was only then that Victor remembered his initial plan of preparing some popcorn to watch a movie, sighing in defeat as he stroked Makkachin’s soft fur.

There was still a bottle of vodka on the coffee table, he remembered, peeking to find it exactly where he’d left the night before. He poured himself a small dose and took a sip as he watched the documentary with no real interest. It was all about waiting for that familiar buzzing feeling that alcohol brought with it as he watched the TV, drinking just enough to feel that relaxation on his limbs that made sleeping much easier.  

He dozed off eventually, softly snoring with Makkachin curled between his legs, the low hum from the TV barely audible in his sleep.

 

* * *

 

**A Tête-a-Tête With Victor Nikiforov**

The president talks about transparency, what's on his bookshelf and his top priorities as Russia’s new leader.

By William S.

 

Most presidents I’ve met and interviewed have tended to be gregarious, keen on pleasing and impressing, talkative almost to a fault. Victor Nikiforov, by contrast, is quiet, collected and effortlessly precise, courteous and pleasant to be around.

I met him in Berlin, on the occasion of the UN General Assembly, for breakfast, and I’m overwhelmed by how low-key it all is. He has a book with him, something he’s been reading for the trip, he tells me, surrounded by the members of his council, casually exchanging impressions on some street-performer that they’d seen on their way to the hotel the previous day. There are no more than five staffers with him, all of them joining him for breakfast as if it was some common occurrence.

His calmness is reflected in his smooth and controlled term, having recently reached the mark of five months into office with remarkably positive feedback on his policies. In conversation, his thoughtfulness is punctuated by a laid-back wit, and much like his speeches Nikiforov’s eloquence and charisma prove to be his strong traits that make him such a successful leader.

 

**When did you first think of running for president? At what stage of your life did you begin to think that you could or should be president?**

I would divide it into two periods: the theoretical and the practical. The theoretical moment consisted of catching myself thinking “I could make some better decisions than the current president”, as, I think, everyone does at some point in their lives. The practical moment was when I started thinking, in a very possible way, that being president was something I should pursue. This practical part wasn’t until I was appointed Minister of Labor and Social Security and was faced with significant challenges that made my work impossible. That was when I had the sense that I should do something about it instead of just thinking “I could do better than them”, acting on it instead of waiting for someone else to do it.

**So it was when the State Duma scandal happened?**

It wasn’t only then, but that’s when I committed to it. We had gotten such a powerful response to the declaration at the State Duma we all agreed we needed to take action. People were waiting for someone to say it. When it happened, and when I saw the response it got from the public – that was when I felt people were eager to move past the old political ambiance. It was like they were only waiting for the occasion to go out on the streets and speak their minds.

**That’s what gave you the confidence to hit your stride as a candidate?**

I was never lacking in self-confidence. Everything I decide to work on will always have my full potential and dedication put into it. That’s the only way I know it’ll work. So, when I settled on becoming a candidate, I was already resolute on doing my absolute best to guarantee I could justify the trust of a whole nation in me when I took office. And while losing was a possibility, all things considered, I didn’t want to think of it. I was set on giving the other candidates a run for their money.

**You mentioned having good self-confidence. What are some other traits you find important in your professional life?**

I’ve discovered that I don’t get a lot of satisfaction from being the center of attention. (Laughs) I deal with it – doesn’t bother me at all. What really satisfies me is getting my work done, finding different ways of making it better. And that has led me to find out that I’m very… stable. Which is extremely helpful. It allows you to study your strategy before acting on it, making sure to get the best possible result out of what you’re planning on doing or consider the best way to approach a potential ally. A steady mood is key to a position of power like the presidency, and it’s been really satisfying to find that out about myself.

**Were you surprised at the people’s optimistic response by electing you?**

What I think my victory as president represents is that the Russian people are genuinely concerned about the direction our country is moving, worried about whether they’re going to be able to follow other countries’ paces and not be left behind. We might have a certain melancholy infused within ourselves, but that doesn’t stop us from aspiring to do better and make things differently. I was excited to find out that such a large number of people believe in the same dreams as I do, and that fills me with hope.

**Many young people have backed you during your campaign and placed such hope in you and your promise for change — how will your term affect them?**

What we’ve been noticing in the past decade is that young people are leaving Russia to start their lives elsewhere, never to return, and we’ve been wondering why. And a lot of people dismissed this problem as it being lack of interest from young generations, but that’s not it. The younger masses weren’t feeling represented enough, their voices weren’t being heard, so leaving the country to try and be heard elsewhere is the logical reaction. There is a real hunger to get engaged and involved on the part of young people, but they didn't see politics as an avenue to do it. From my perspective, the previous government failed on finding a way of letting these voices be heard – they are our nation’s future. We were due for an upgrade. Virtual meetings, increasing transparency, accountability on legislation, these are all tools available to give them an opportunity to speak and be heard. It gives them the opportunity to hold me accountable when I'm not following through on promises that I've made, and gives me meaningful guidance to know what I should be focusing on.

**Talking about change, this is a recurring word in your speeches. Not in policy terms, can you elaborate what change means for you? And what do you want for Russia as a whole?**

What I want the most is to establish an even-leveled way of communication between government and the people. I want everyone to feel connected, be a part of it, and I want the government to listen to these voices and act on them – not on special interests. That’s what I mean when I speak about change. For as long as I can remember democracy has always been some sort of questionable term when speaking politics in Russia, and that certainly takes a toll not only in a more internal level but also the external level – foreign policies and such. And since we are talking about internal and external affairs that change takes a much broader aspect, I want Russia to think about long-term as well as short-term changes, be it on natural resources, the federal budget and national debt, investments in the military, or health care and education. We need to stop thinking of all these things as disconnected branches of a government and bring them into a balance with one another.

**It’s noticeable that political transparency, especially in funding, has been something you’ve been very vocal about. How do you feel the current political climate is on that front?**

Past scandals aside, this is something that we as a political system have to improve on, and one of the main goals for my term. Whenever you transition to a new way of thinking about structuring something, especially in something as complex as politics, the old is going to resist the new. In order to actually get something working, we are going to need to steadily ratchet down the influence of private interests in the political system. This is not easy, which is why we need to be extremely careful in this transition. Our goal as a collective is to find the middle ground where the government is free to act on behalf of the people without being held captive by people who have billions of dollars and want the government to do as they please, while not having the government to be too authoritative. Some of the things we want to do probably won’t fit into a term, but it’s important to have the pieces laid down and set the engines in motion for the future.

**How does it feel to be so young in this office?**

It’s a lot of responsibility. Being president is a challenge and it requires a great deal of energy to fulfill the official agenda, constantly traveling from one place to another and keeping yourself in a frame of mind where you’re not put down with all the effort you’re constantly making. I have a very experienced team offering all support necessary, they are my backbone and I’m very lucky to have them on my side.

**It seems like you are all one big family, you and your aides.**

We are. I’m always trying to find new ways to show them my appreciation, so whenever our agenda allows it we meet up for lunch every couple of weeks. I’m always seeking to engage with my work team – it wouldn’t make sense talking about change, about bringing the government closer to the people if I kept all of my aides at an arm’s distance. It’s about taking small steps and showing everyone how simple it can be.

**This is something that has caught a lot of attention even on international level. You seem to avoid using the presidential transportation, in favor of taking the metro to the Kremlin or even riding a bicycle to work. You also don’t use the presidential residence nearly as much as previous presidents. Is there any specific reason behind this?**

I’ve always used public transport to get places before, and I figured it wouldn’t make sense to change that once I became the person in charge of making sure these services should be of quality. If a service is provided with public money then it should be good enough for anyone to use. As for the presidential residence, that’s my workplace. I feel more comfortable if I can go back to the comfort of my home, the place my dog likes the most, so I can unwind after work. It’s not that I don’t appreciate all the things that are available for me – I’d just rather lead a normal life, as much as possible.

**And what about your safety?**

There’s an efficient team that’s OK with obliging the president’s lunacy, so that shouldn’t be a problem.

**People can’t help but notice you’re single. Have you been married before?**

I have not.

**Does anyone currently have your heart?**

I’m in a serious relationship with my work, and she leaves no room for other mistresses.

**You are an avid reader. What have you been reading lately?**

I’ve been reading Žižek’s  _Living in the End Times_  on this travel. It’s a heavy read – I find myself taking breaks from it after a couple of hours to process what’s being discussed – but also compelling. It was the same thing when I read Hobsbawm’s  _Age of Extremes_ , but then again not many people read these kinds of books for leisure.

**Physical copies or e-books?**

When I go on long trips I usually favor e-books. I like having a variety to choose from, so I’ll pick a read depending on my mood, so instead of carrying a bunch of books I’ll just have a device for it. Physical copies are my go-to when I’m on short trips.

**Name three of your all-time favorite books.**

Wilde’s  _The Importance of Being Earnest_  is probably my favorite, I always find myself returning to it when I have the chance.  _The Book of Disquiet_ by Fernando Pessoa has left quite an impression on me, and  _Pride and Prejudice_  by Jane Austen is a frequent reread for me.

**Is there anything you would lay down at the end of your first term where you say, "If this has happened or not happened, I would consider it a negative thing on my governance"?**

If I haven’t established and implemented a good healthcare and educational system, and if I haven’t raised, even if just a little, the living standards in Russia and made Russia a more reliable ally in the international plan, then we’ve missed the boat. I think these three points are my major long-term plans that I’d like to have achieved, or at least leave ready at the end of my first term. It’ll require a lot of attention and hard work, and it’s going to be a big challenge for all of us.

 

When we are done talking, his parting words are delivered with a dazzling smile: “Pleased to meet you. Take care.”

 

* * *

 

Victor placed his elbows on the desk, resting his chin on the heels of his hands, sighing helplessly as he tried to find what was wrong with the millionth draft he had in his hands that didn’t quite sound right to him.

There was a stubborn pain in his shoulders that wouldn’t go away no matter how many times he stretched, rolling his shoulders back and his head to the sides. He took painkillers to no avail, experiencing only a slight improvement that wouldn’t last more than a couple of hours. To be simply put, exhaustion was getting the best of him, and although the idea of powering through it when he was  _this close_  to finishing was making it difficult for him to call it a day.

Forty minutes. If he couldn’t finish his draft in forty minutes, he’d give up for the day. Victor vaguely remembered telling himself that same thing earlier, but  _this_  time he was serious. Lilia had left maybe an hour ago – he couldn’t be sure – which meant he  _should_  have gone home as well, but since he’d gotten the habit of taking Makkachin with him to the Kremlin he felt more comfortable with the idea of staying over for a little longer.

He knew he’d spent too much time on that project – and he also knew it  _should_ be ready at this point, but he’d spent so long rewriting his drafts to get them perfect that he ended up wasting too much time. It was the third time he had tried to pass this bill and he couldn’t figure out exactly  _why_  he couldn’t get enough support from his opposition.

The idea of dropping that paperwork for the day, going back home and eating some nice spaghetti  _did_  sound attractive. If Victor didn’t know himself well enough, he’d do exactly that – though he knew once he got home, all he’d be able to think about was of different ways of wording his proposals, which would make him restless because he wouldn’t be able to get his hands on it until the next morning.

His eyes hurt, burning as he moved them around trying to focus on objects at a greater distance, and rubbing them on the back of his hands felt  _so good_  Victor let out a tired groan as he blinked his eyes back to focus on the mayhem his handwriting had become. Maybe he really needed to call it a day and go back home, because what good would it make him keep trying to press if it he was so tired? Unless he asked for a coffee, something that would give him that boost he so sorely needed, he could finish transcribing his scribbles to the open document on his computer and pick Makkachin from the kennel.

Victor sat back on his chair, shuffling through the papers on his desk in search of his first draft for a comparative reading that would give him some time to think when he heard sharp knocks on the door.

“Yes?”

At that point, fixing his gaze on anything that wasn’t at least thirty centimeters from his face was a real challenge. The door was pushed open, and though he could recognize the shape on the doorway Victor could barely make sense of it. After a couple of blinks later he was able to recognize a familiar face of one of the Kremlin staff workers, pushing a tea trolley into his office without ceremony.

“I’ve brought some tea,” said the old lady, closing the door behind her.

Victor nodded, finding it a bit odd that instead of asking him what he’d like she was just bringing in tea, but he decided he’d take it. The white-haired lady pushed the trolley into his office with a smile, slow steps crossing the room until she was right in front of his desk, the scent of sweet vanilla tea emanating deliciously from the kettle almost so powerful he could feel himself relax.

“Thank you, Lyudmila,” Victor smiled as she poured some tea in a fancy cup.

“It is my special recipe,” she explained, hands surprisingly agile for a woman of her age, placing the cup of tea on the only breach available on Victor’s chaotic desk. “I thought I should bring in something before dinner.”

Knitting his eyebrows in confusion, Victor looked at the old lady expecting her to elaborate on why was dinner going to be served. He didn’t usually have a second meal at the Kremlin – unless it was a special occasion, of which Victor had absolutely no clue. He worried his lip between his teeth trying to recall if he had any dinners scheduled for that week, but nothing came up.

Taking a quick look at his watch, he realized he’d stayed for longer than he’d planned. Time sure seemed to fly when he was neck-deep in projects.

Lyudmila poured a second cup of tea, one in which she added an unreasonable amount of sugar, stirring a couple of times before taking the seat right in front of him. She did so with such ease, as if that was a normal occurrence for her, that Victor felt like  _he_  was the one intruding in her office. His mouth moved, though no sound came out, watching the old lady watch him with knowing eyes over her cup of tea.

“You work too much,” she said, frowning like a concerned grandma. “Lilia said you didn’t leave your office today. You need a break.”

And Victor would have protested if it wasn’t for the look of genuine concern in her eyes, the way Lyudmila looked upset that he’d been holed up in his office, hunched over all those documents all day. He remained in silence, taking a sip from his warm tea and enjoying the myriad of flavors that danced on his tongue. Oddly enough, he felt his body relax as he drank some more.

He could see his reflection on Lyudmila’s glasses – his silver hair disheveled from running his fingers through it every time he sighed in exasperation, the loose tie around his neck laid on his slightly crumpled shirt rolled up on his forearms. That and his slumped shoulders spelled exhaustion in three different languages for him.

“Seems like I lost track of time,” Victor commented nonchalantly, eyes lost somewhere on his desk.

When he looked back up, Lyudmila was studying him with impenetrable eyes.

“Enough work for today, yes? You need to take good care of yourself,” she smiled over the edge of her cup. “Have dinner. Get your dog; go to the presidential room and rest. You have everything at your disposal there.”

Victor hummed, drinking some tea as he weighed her suggestion. In six months in office he’d never used the presidential residence for other than official meetings, so he couldn’t exactly say he felt comfortable in that luxurious home. On the other hand, he  _was_  feeling too tired to go back home, and considering dinner was about to be served and Makkachin was pretty much with him already, staying over didn’t sound like a bad idea.

So he agreed, feeling oddly relaxed after finishing his tea and barely being able to keep his eyes open after the delightful meal. And Victor had no words to describe how grateful he was for that suggestion when he took Makkachin with him to his bedroom in the Kremlin and flopped on the comfortable bed, a long sigh falling from his lips as he let his body relax, enveloped by the warm fluffy covers on the bed.

It was an unfamiliar bedroom, very much impersonal even though it was as comfortable as his own home. He made a mental note of soaking in the bathroom before getting himself ready to sleep, but once he put his phone to charge and found a comfortable position on the bed, with Makkachin sound asleep on his legs, Victor knew well enough he wasn’t moving for the day.

Even with sleep pooling in his eyelids; it was hard to disconnect his mind from his work, subtle reminders that he wasn’t at home making it increasingly difficult to fall asleep regardless of how comfortable he was. Careful not to importune Makkachin in his sleep, Victor peeled his clothes off, tucking himself under the warm covers in the hopes that sleep would find him soon.

As his consciousness ebbed, his mind went into a free fall, swirling nonsensical thoughts and images as his body went limp on the comfort of that large bed. Even with his phone close to his face, Victor didn’t even notice when its screen lit up with a notification on the election of a new Prime Minister in Japan.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! <3 Comments and kudos are extremely appreciated!  
> This series is going to be very Victor-centric, but I can't wait to write Yuuri on the next update <3 It might take a while to come since I'm working on my thesis project but it will... eventually.
> 
> Please don't hesitate to hit me up and talk about this AU <3  
> Don't forget to subscribe to the series to get updates!  
> You can follow me on [tumblr (vityanikiforova)](http://vityanikiforova.tumblr.com) and [twitter (cutesudon)](http://twitter.com/cutesudon) for more updates!


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